To the courtiers, however, it was the same to see him as any other author or composer, curiosities all, whom the grandees hire to perform in their parlors or on their lawns.
The King received him coldly on account of his costume, dusty with the journey in the omnibus, but he addressed him with the limpid clearness of the monarch which drove from Rousseau’s head all the platitudes he had rehearsed.
But as soon as the rehearsal was begun, the attention was drawn to the piece and the composer was forgotten.
But he was remarking everything; the noblemen in the dress of peasants sang as far out of tune as the King himself; the ladies in the attire of court shepherdesses flirted. The Dauphiness sang correctly, but she was a poor actress; besides, she had so little voice that she could hardly be heard. The Dauphin spoke his lines. In short, the opera scarcely got on in the least.
Only one consolation came to Rousseau. He caught sight of one delightful face among the chorus-ladies and it was her voice which sounded the best of all.
“Eh,” said the Dauphiness, following his look, “has Mdlle. de Taverney made a fault?”
Andrea blushed as she saw all eyes turn upon her.
“No, no!” the author hastened to say, “that young lady sings like an angel.”
Lady Dubarry darted a glance on him sharper than a javelin.
On the other hand Baron Taverney felt his heart melt with joy and he smiled his warmest on the composer.